


You're Beautiful, I Hate You

by literaryconfectionery



Category: The Smoke Thieves
Genre: Canon-typical Moping Edyon, Demon World spoilers, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, look I just want them to be happy, rated t for ONE swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 22:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryconfectionery/pseuds/literaryconfectionery
Summary: After the events of The Demon World, Edyon is conflicted. After a discussion with his father, he goes to visit March one last time.Welcome to the March/Edyon fandom, population: me





	You're Beautiful, I Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> I finished The Demon World and I was like, are you telling me Edyon is really just gonna let March go like this? And my heart just couldn't accept that. And so here we are.

Edyon had long since stopped crying when the knock on his door came, but he scrubbed at his face anyway, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious. It was only a few hours since Edyon had visited March in his cell, gone to see his father, and stolen Regan’s gloves. He stood quickly, pretended to be looking at something on his desk instead of sitting hunched on the floor, and took a breath to invite whoever it was in. Before he could utter a word, however, the intruder had already opened the door and was striding over the threshold.

“Edyon.”

“Your—Father.”

Edyon rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Your Highness’ seemed too formal, but ‘Father’ still wasn’t coming naturally to him. Prince Thelonius simply smiled blandly, gestured for his servant to stand guard outside, and closed the door.

“You didn’t come to dinner.”

“I was still feeling unwell, and didn’t want to risk eating.” He picked up some of the paperwork on the desk, so he could appear to study it instead of meeting Thelonius’ eyes.

“Is that why you’ve been looking so unhappy all the while? You’re ill?”

Inwardly, Edyon cringed. Was he really that easy to read?

“Yes.” It wasn’t that far from the truth; his head was pounding from crying all afternoon, and the dull throb made him feel sick.

His father eventually stopped scrutinising him and instead turned and strolled to one of the long windows, looking out at the reds and oranges of the sunset beyond the mountains.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. If it continues, tell me, and I’ll have my physician called.”

“Oh. Thank you. I appreciate that.”

There was quiet for a moment, and Edyon took the opportunity to close his eyes briefly, massaging two fingers into one of his temples. It didn’t seem like Thelonius was going to go away any time soon; obviously he was here to discuss something, so they might as well get it over and done with. He joined his father at the window, looking not at the sunset but at the castle grounds below, long sharp shadows cast darkly across the gardens.

As soon as Edyon stood beside him, Thelonius asked, “So, what was all that earlier? About Abask.”

_Oh no._ He did not want to have this conversation.

“What do you mean?” Edyon sounded politely puzzled. At least... he _hoped_ he sounded politely puzzled.

“‘The Abasks wanted it,’” quoted Thelonius. “I believe those were your words, were they not? It made me wonder what exactly that servant had been telling you, while he’d been lying to you all that time.”

“Oh, that.” He shrugged, the picture of unconcern. “It didn’t mean anything. I was merely... you know. Playing devil’s advocate.”

Thelonius was watching him out of the corner of his eye. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Edyon paused. He didn’t know what he meant by that. He was, of course, doing what he always did: making it up as he went along, with the hope that tone alone would be enough to inspire belief in his non-existent expertise.

“Well, you know. I always find it a good idea to look at plans from every angle, consider them from every view point. Give them a really thorough analysing before making a decision. Don’t you?”

The Prince was silent. Edyon found himself wishing he’d gone to dinner so he could have drank enough to make this conversation halfway bearable.

“When you’re a leader, you have to learn to make tough decisions,” Thelonius said, and Edyon had to bite his tongue to not remark on the obviousness of that statement. “When you’re at war, you protect your own people first and foremost. If defending your country comes at the cost of abandoning another, then so be it. My duty was—still is—to Calidor only. If Abask can’t defend itself, what concern is that of mine?”

_But you promised to protect them,_ Edyon found himself thinking.

“Yes, I’ll admit I had... offered to help them, if it came to it,” Thelonius continued, sounding alarmingly as though he’d read his thoughts. “But to do so would have weakened Calidor more. Perhaps so much so that we’d have been defeated. A defeated country can’t protect anyone. You see the sense in my actions, don’t you? Or do you wish to play ‘devil’s advocate’ here too?”

“No. It makes sense.”

And it did, sort of. Perhaps the matter could have been laid to rest there, had Thelonius not added flippantly, “It’s not like anyone really missed them anyway. Poor and simple as they were.”

Edyon couldn’t help it: he stared up at Thelonius, eyebrows inching towards his hairline. “So if they’d been rich…?”

Thelonius met his look unflinchingly. “If they’d been rich, perhaps they could have defended themselves from the Brigantines, and wouldn’t have had to rely on benevolence from neighbouring states, who happened to be in enough trouble themselves.” The Prince raised an eyebrow, as though daring Edyon to challenge him. When he didn’t, he said, “So then, did you tell that bastard servant about our deal?”

“Yes.”

Yes, the deal. Edyon had been permitted to pardon March, as long as March was immediately escorted out of the country, and never returned. It was better than March being put to death, he supposed, but wouldn’t be much different in the long run, from Edyon’s perspective.

“And what did he say?”

“He’s happy to leave.”

“Good, that makes things easier for us. We won’t need so many chains if he’ll walk. And it’s a cheaper disposal than an execution, too.” Thelonius seemed to misread the twitch that Edyon couldn’t help, as he said, “I know, you feel awfully betrayed; it’s not nice to find out you’ve been deceived. To put your trust in someone only for them to stab you in the back. It’s an unfortunate side effect of our high status, I’m afraid. The only thing to do for now is to put it behind you and move on. Soon enough, you will learn not to trust anyone implicitly—not even those closest to you.”

“Isn’t that...” Edyon scratched the back of his head. “Living like that, doesn’t it make you feel sad?”

Thelonius laughed. “You have so much to learn before you become a Prince in more than just name. Get a good night’s sleep tonight, and perhaps you’ll feel better in the morning.”

There was an awkward pause where Edyon thought his father might pat him on the shoulder, or something, but instead he simply brushed past and strode away.

“I’m expecting you to join us for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Yes, father.”

And with a curt nod, Thelonius left. Only when the sound of his steps had retreated down the corridor did Edyon allow himself to laugh bitterly. Sleep it off! Edyon had hardly slept since he’d arrived. He'd been telling himself it was just the time it took to get used to sleeping in a new place, or the excitement of finally meeting his father and becoming a prince. _Definitely_ nothing to do with desperately missing a certain pair of warm arms.

Edyon's fists clenched as he thought of March. He hated him, but the love he'd been cultivating all this time was stubborn, and would not die easily. Or at all, it was starting to seem.

_The only thing to do for now is to put it behind you and move on. _

Yes. His father was right, he needed to put it behind him. Focus on something else. But what?

Just like yesterday, and the day before, there was nothing required of him; nothing here for him to do. The sun had only just slipped under the horizon, but perhaps now was as good a time as any to get a head start on attempting to sleep.

Edyon looked blankly at the papers he hadn't realised he was still holding. Unfolding them from his clenched fist and smoothing them out, he recognised them as the documents for confirmation of his legitimacy, his recognition as a Prince of Calidor. It was supposed to be joyous, but the whole thing was already beginning to taste a little sour in the back of his throat. It had all gone wrong from the moment he'd met his father, and it was all March's bloody fault.

_Wasn't it?_

It was. Of course it was.

Best to stamp out that doubt before it had a chance to catch and spread.

_But_, said the traitorous little voice in Edyon's head,_ if it’s all March's fault, why do you feel so uncomfortable around Prince Thelonius? Why don't these fine clothes, this good food, this comfort and status bring you even a little of the happiness you’d anticipated? _

Edyon had no answer for that, so he ignored it, changing quickly and flopping into his enormous, comfortable bed. He hadn't lain in such luxury since… ever, really. Surely sleep would be forthcoming tonight.

Except, tonight… tonight was March's last night in Calidor before being dumped at the Brigantine border by his Father’s soldiers. After that, he'd never see him again. He might as well be dead. In fact, maybe they would kill him out there anyway, just to make certain he could never come back. Edyon would never find out.

He cursed the tears that burned at his eyes again and squeezed them closed, trying to shut out the thoughts, but images came to mind instead—images of March alone and friendless in the middle of nowhere. March with nothing but the clothes on his back, sleeping cold and alone and unprotected, starving to death on his long and dangerous journey. March being found by Brigantines, being arrested, tortured, crying out in pain—

Enough!

Edyon wanted to scream at himself. But more than that, he wanted to scream at March.

Hours passed while Edyon tossed and turned, growing more and more frustrated as he watched the moon move across the sky. Clouds built up, dispersed, built up again. At midnight, the guards on the watchtowers changed shifts.

Eventually, in the early hours, he sat up. There was something he had to do. His idea was risky, but if it worked… perhaps it would put his mind at rest, and he could finally move on.

*****

Half an hour later, Edyon crept down the stairs into the cells, a hessian sack tucked under his arm. The guard was sat facing the cells, his back to the stairs, but his head was hanging over his lap—he'd fallen asleep. It was perhaps the only good luck Edyon had had in a long while. He fished a kitchen knife out of the sack and gave the guard a good solid thump on the temple with the heavy wooden handle. The guard slumped, properly unconscious, and if Edyon’s luck held out he'd not wake up until after dawn, when March would be long out of reach.

The ring of keys was easy enough to detach from the man's belt loop; they were even handily labelled with the numbers of each cell door. Fate obviously agreed with him about this being the best course of action.

Before he put the key in the lock, Edyon couldn't resist peeking through the barred window in the door. March wasn't easy to spot in the darkness, curled up as small as he would go, tucked into the furthest corner of the room. Edyon swallowed every emotion that rose sickeningly in his throat. He had to be strong. 

The clunk of the lock and the groan of the wooden door roused March, though thankfully the guard didn't stir. As flickering torchlight streamed into the cell, March scrambled to his feet, expression wary.

"It's me," Edyon said unnecessarily.

"What are you doing?"

It was a fair question, but Edyon didn't immediately answer; he was replacing the knife in the sack, and drawing out two long, thin pieces of metal, hooked at the end. These he inserted into the keyhole on the cell side of the door, propping them carefully at an angle.

Then he turned and handed the sack to March, avoiding his silver gaze.

"You escaped in the night," he explained. "You didn’t have any help, understand? Don’t get spotted, and make sure to cross the border before dawn."

March opened the sack, looked at the cheese and bread, the skein of water, the long knife, the leather walking boots, the woollen travelling cloak underneath. Then he looked at Edyon.

“Why?"

"Now we're even."

"No. You don't owe me anything." March held the bag out; Edyon didn't react.

"Just take it."

"No."

Edyon shoved the bag away, back towards March. "Take it!"

"I can't take this."

"I want you to have it!"

"I don't _want_ it!"

"What?" Edyon snapped. "You don't want to survive?"

"No," said March simply, and it was this that made Edyon finally stop and meet his eyes.

"What?" He said again, but this time all the venom was gone.

March shrugged, his gaze slipping away from Edyon's. "What do I have to live for?"

The sentence felt like a knife in his chest. He opened his mouth, paused. "Well... why not go to Pitoria? Find Princess Catherine."

"Princess Catherine doesn't need me. I have nothing to offer her, and a foreigner hanging around would just cause her more trouble."

Edyon swallowed, tried another tack. "You have to survive. You're the last Abask." As soon as the words left his lips he knew it was the wrong thing to say, but there was nothing for it now.

March twitched. "Don’t pretend you care about that."

Edyon was about to insist, but stalled when he caught sight of something glistening on March's cheek. March's tears were silent, his arm still outstretched, still holding the bag out to Edyon.

"If you really cared, you wouldn't be able to stand loyal beside a Prince who promised a country his protection and then betrayed them because it wasn't convenient. Because they were poor and obscure. My people were wiped out because of his selfishness. Because of him, my brother and I starved in the dirt until he died in my arms." March's voice was shaking now, his arm trembling. "Have you asked him if he regrets it? If he would take it back?"

Edyon was silent.

“No, of course he doesn't. And do you condone that?”

_Of course I don’t condone that_.

Edyon thought of Princess Catherine. She’d never have gone back on that promise, even if it was a risk to her own country; she’d have found a way to make it work. For the sake of hundreds, possibly thousands of innocent lives, she’d at least _try_.

Again, unbidden images rose to mind: he saw March alone in the wilderness, starving and tattered, only this time he clung to a corpse. The body of a small boy who looked exactly like him. The demon’s corpse had been warm, his mind supplied unhelpfully. But March’s brother would have been cold.

It was no good. He couldn’t hold it back any more. He tore the sack from March’s grasp, flung it aside, and threw his arms around March, feeling his own sobs ripped quietly from his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t quite know what he was sorry for, only that he was; he was sorry for them both, sorrier than he’d ever felt. March didn’t wrap his arms around Edyon, but he did hide his face in his silk shirt, soaking it with tears.

“No,” March gasped, “_I’m_ sorry. I ruined everything for you.”

“You did. I hate you.”

“I know.”

Edyon gripped tighter, pressing his face into March’s neck. “I _hate_ you.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to let you go.”

“You have to, Edyon.”

Edyon shook his head fiercely, as though simply by denying it he could make it not true. In his head, he was angry; but in his heart, he knew he could not let March go. Knew he never would be able to. Even if he somehow did, March would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He pulled back to take the thin face gently in his hands, looking into eyes red-rimmed and wide. “Do you believe in second chances?”

“What?”

“I mean... if there’s no hope of redemption in this life, then what’s the point?”

March shook his head. “What are you saying?”

This time, Edyon knew exactly what he was saying.

“I’m coming with you, March. We found my father, we warned him, I've met him; we’ve done all we needed to do here. Let’s go and find the Princess, help her win the war.”

“What? But, all this... your legitimacy…”

“As a legitimate Prince I’d be confined to this castle, most likely, doing princely duties or shadowing my father day after day. Bored to death and lonely… that’s not the dream I had in my head when I thought of life here. And my father, he’s... he’s not who I hoped he’d be. But, that’s not the reason I want to go. The reason is that I can’t see a life without you in it, March, no matter who you really are or what you’ve done. I’ve thought about it long and hard—I haven't been able to _stop_ thinking about it, truthfully—and I can’t be happy without you. That’s all there is to it.”

But March was shaking his head again.

“No. I don’t deserve that.”

Edyon moved his hands from March’s face to his shoulders, holding tight, trying to ground him. “I know you’re a good person in your heart. If what happened to you hadn’t happened, you’d never have been filled with so much rage and hurt, and you’d never have felt the need for revenge. And I think Holywell probably had much more of a negative influence on you than you realised.

“Anyway, whether you deserve it or not is besides the point—I’m not leaving you, no matter what happens. And I can’t promise I’ll forgive you straightaway, but… I’ll try.” With a sigh, he touched his forehead to March’s, closed his eyes. “I never stopped loving you, March. I don’t think I ever could.”

“Oh, Edyon.”

Edyon kissed March softly, so softly, and when they parted March looked right into Edyon’s trembling soul and murmured something in Abask, and it was full of his love and light-headed gratefulness, and it was the truth.

“_Tu’wo vallee_.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone read this, thank you! You're welcome to tell me how bad it was and/or yell about disaster gays with me!


End file.
